


Bike Shorts Show All

by ear_hats



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Ficlet, Kink Meme, M/M, Poor John, pre slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ear_hats/pseuds/ear_hats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: 'bike shorts show all'. </p>
<p>Let it never be said that careful flattery gets Sherlock Holmes nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bike Shorts Show All

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt (http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117386015#t117386015) on the kink meme. I hope you like it OP! Thank you to Dainton for beta-ing, you're the best :)

John looked up from his paper only at the third loud crash from the cupboard in the hallway where Sherlock had been banging about for the last ten minutes. The latest blog entry was coming along nicely, he thought he'd get it finished today providing Lestrade or a surprise client didn't bring them a case. He'd even been so kind as to leave the two day span where Sherlock had done nothing but sulk, because Mycroft had come over, Mrs Hudson had confiscated his skull and he found his sock index in a mess in the same hour, out of his notes (he wasn't particularly after a repeat performance). So the least Sherlock could do would be to give him a little quiet while he cracked on. 

"Sherlock, what _are_ you doing in there?" He heard another muffled thump and a cough. Must be dusty in his little costume cupboard.  
"Finding something." Came the vague reply. John stared at his laptop for a few more seconds before twisting his neck to watch the various props and outfits being tossed out of the door like a violently ill rainbow.  
"Can I help?"  
"No. Not yet."  
Well, John couldn't decide whether he was mainly oddly excited or just anxious. "Aha!" Sherlock appeared next to John's armchair triumphantly, brandishing something yellow and shiny and watching John's confusion in the furrow of his brow. "Put these on." 

The article was passed over and John winced as he stretched out the material and saw that 'these' were a pair of lycra cycling shorts. There was no way in hell. 

"No," Sherlock made to protest and John shook his head, "Uh uh. No way, Sherlock." The man looked confused.  
"Why not?"  
"Because," John struggled, "Bike shorts are manufactured specifically for young, fit, cyclists and not old men."  
Sherlock sighed, deep and whistling. 

John grumbled as he stripped out of his trousers and the belt clinked on the floor. Let it never be said that careful flattery gets Sherlock Holmes nowhere. 

It wasn't just that they were so tight. The bright yellow colour was frankly offensive and he didn't even want to think about where Sherlock had got these. Or if he'd ever worn them. 

Boxers were out, ridiculous as it was, they wouldn't fit underneath. Sherlock might have well asked John to wear a pair of budgie smugglers. He'd probably get as good a view. 

John wriggled into the shorts with an odd shuffling dance. The snap of the elastic against his skin almost made him jump in the silence of his room. 

"Are you wearing them?" An impatient voice called from the other side of the door. He'd probably been stood there waiting the whole time, John thought, almost amused.  
"Wait!" If he shouted a confirmation Sherlock would be there in a flash and he just wanted to check . . .

Ah. The full length mirror confirmed his fears. 

"John."  
"Give me a second!" 

You could see _everything_. The yellow fabric clung to his thighs and, God, there was a bump. There was a definite bump. 

He spun around and twisted his back. His arse probably wouldn't even look this defined were he naked. The seam of the shorts disappeared snugly into the crack between his two cheeks, giving them an obscenely round shape. 

"John!"

He panicked. There was no way he could let Sherlock see him in these. Killing for him, offering his life for him in the face of two psychopaths was something completely different. Their relationship didn't cover _bike shorts_. 

"John." Sometime during his internal anxiety attack, Sherlock had opened the door and stepped inside. And he was staring. Staring with his eyes as big as bloody dinner plates and like John's bloody _package_ was a fresh bloody corpse. 

Well, great. Fucking marvellous. 

"Sherlock! Get out!" 

But he didn't, of course. They both stood there, one stricken and one having mental raptures about lycra and an army doctor's backside. Finally, Sherlock gave a dry cough, his eyes never leaving the yellow fabric and the flesh it was clinging to.  
"Right, well, yes, that's very-" He sucked in a deep breath and John made an effort to shut his mouth. "Very good. Good, yes." 

Footsteps running up the stairs.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock?!"  
"Up here!" The detective calls, (without even the decency to look away for one second, not one!) and John doesn't have to cover his face with his hands because Sherlock will be able to read his frustration in the way his butt is clenched, no bloody doubt.  
It's Greg. Oh God, it's Greg.  
"Sherlock, we need you for - what the bloody hell-?"

Marvellous.


End file.
